


Swan Song

by Gimmemocha



Series: Rachel Davenport [1]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5028394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gimmemocha/pseuds/Gimmemocha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward has a promise to keep, and nothing gets in the way of his word. Nothing, that is, except an old Gypsy curse. He needs someone to remove it, and unfortunately for New York witch Rachel Davenport, he's set on her doing it. Dead set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this originally in 2001, if you can believe it. There are people born the year I wrote this who are going to be driving in a couple of years. It's enough to make me barf. Anyway, I realized that this isn't actually posted anywhere and I do like it. I'll probably throw it and the sequel up, as soon as I find the sequel on one of my backup drives. I'm posting it here with no further editing, though it needs some. I've learned a lot about writing since this, but I'm leaving it as is, a kind of time capsule.

**Sometime in February a box arrived from Edward. It was a swan skin. The note read, "I found a witch to lift his curse."**  
\- "The Lunatic Café", pg. 369 Laurell K. Hamilton  


It sounded like the opening line to a bad joke. 

"A killer and a cursed man walk into an herb shop. . ." 

The only problem was that it wasn't a joke, and I owned the herb shop. Rachel Davenport, owner/operator of Secret Garden Herbs, Charms, and Trinkets. No Love Spells, Sorry. That's on the door, too. Not that people come to me for love spells. I am not, as it happens, the most powerful witch in New York City, not even close. That title goes to Maxine Wells. Or maybe Cris Carver. 

They seem to enjoy the publicity. Me, I keep my head down. It's no secret I'm a witch, but it is a secret that I boast an enormous amount of control. Power and control are, I think, opposing poles of magic. People with power never learn fine control; why pick a lock if you can blow the door off the hinges, right? And it's power that gets attention, not control. I've never been on television, I've never been written up in The New Yorker. I can accomplish good things with my level of fine control, but no one knows it. Not really. 

So when the door to my shop pushed open two minutes before closing time, I assumed it was one of my little old lady regulars, come for a tea blend to help combat their arthritis or bursitis or whichever -itis was popular this week with the seniors. 

Then a killer and a cursed man walked into my herb shop. 

One of the things witches have to put up with are monthly inspections by the local police force. I just add it to the list. Health inspections, fire inspections, ward inspections. My shop is warded, wards made to give me warning because that's about all I can do with them, legally. I want to know what kind of people are coming into my store. I can spot a shoplifter the moment they cross my threshold. I know the intent buyers from the casual browsers, the sick-at-heart from the sick-in-body. He was my first killer. 

Killers can have a range of aural tastes. There are people who kill for the pleasure, and people who kill because they can. There are people who kill because they don't really believe in the humanity of anyone else, and there are people who don't want to kill but have to. This killer didn't taste like remorse or lust. He had killed, he would kill again, and if it mattered to him who he killed, well, my wards weren't that specific. 

If the killer wasn't enough to get my attention, the cursed man with him would have been. The curse was old, settled, comfortable where it was. The skill that went into it was extraordinary. Most curses leak 'bad vibes'. This one was a masterpiece. It clung to the victim like a lover. If my wards hadn't been so sensitive, I'd never have caught the stale taste of malevolent magic.

What I wanted to do was throw them both out before I could find out why they'd come. But, to be truthful, I didn't know how the killer would react to that. I tried to console myself with the thought that maybe they were there for a baggy of dragon's blood. Hell, I'd even sell it wholesale if it'd get them to leave. 

Killer approached the counter, while I tried not to look like I was hiding. He dragged the cursed man behind him, but he wasn't looking at him. Killer was looking at me. I'd never seen someone whose eyes were so perfectly suited to their personality. His eyes were pale blue, like glacial ice. They made it easy to ignore the feigned polite smile on his thin lips. 

"What do you want?" I asked, abrupt and blunt. Far cry from my usual "Welcome to the Secret Garden" speech I trotted out for first-time customers. 

Bluntness didn't seem to bother Killer any. "I want you to remove the curse." 

The fact that he didn't bother to tell me which curse or on who meant that he knew I knew already. I can't say as I liked that too much. I tried to play dumb; it was a reflex. Head down, remember? "What curse?" 

I've always envied people who can lift one eyebrow. I can't even figure out which muscle that is. I confess to actually spending time in front of the mirror practicing it. Killer had it down to an art form. One pale blond eyebrow rose. 

I could feel my skin warming. Damned Irish heritage, anyway. My fingers wanted to curl together, but I stopped them. Killer probably knew I was getting nervous already, no need to send out screaming signals. I glanced at Cursed, stalling for time. 

Cursed was taller than Killer, but from the expression on his fine features, he wasn't the one in charge. Big surprise there. He had soft white hair cropped close to his skull, like dandelion fuzz. He would have been handsome, in a pale aristocratic way, if he hadn't looked so put-out. 

I looked back at Killer. "Can't do it," I said. 

"Won't." 

My shoulders rounded. "Can't," I repeated, setting my jaw on the word. 

Killer smiled, and his entire demeanor transformed. If I hadn't already known what he was, I'd have bought the act whole-heartedly. His blue eyes warmed, twinkling with a light that makes you feel included in on some private joke. His body relaxed, the casual posture of Everyman on the street. For some reason, it gave me the creeps. Maybe it was knowing what was behind this perfect act. I didn't want to know how he'd learned to perfect it or who he'd practiced it on. "You haven't even looked at it," he noted in a Southwestern drawl. 

I didn't want to look at it. I knew it was old, I knew it was strong, and more importantly I knew I didn't want to have anything more to do with either man. I kept stalling. "Who are you guys?" 

"I'm Ted Forrester, " he replied, "and this is Kaspar." 

Ted? Ted the Killer? He should have had a creepier name, something more sinister. But then, look at Ted Bundy. I also noticed Kaspar didn't have a last name. "Well Ted," I said, "the curse is damned near ancient, and it was set by someone with a grudge the size of Kansas. I'm not up to removing a curse like that." 

"Jacob Gardner says otherwise." 

Jacob Gardner, local werewolf alpha. Ulfric is the correct term. He was in a position to know the real extent of my abilities, but I wasn't happy hearing his name bandied about. Jacob and I had an understanding, as much as a witch and a werewolf could have. He didn't try and make me the local pack witch, and I didn't lock him in wolf form for seven times seven years. It was a good bargain. 

Of course, I had thought our bargain included secrecy, a sort of 'I won't tell if you don't tell' thing. Jacob is as much in the closet in his own way as I am. 

"You spoke with Jacob Gardner?" 

Killer - I mean, Ted - nodded. "He was very forthcoming." 

"You're lying." Something behind Ted's eyes shifted, warning me that had been entirely the wrong thing to say. I hurried onward. "Jacob wouldn't have talked to you." 

Ted's voice was back to the cold control I'd first heard. In a way, I liked it better. At least it felt honest. "A surprising number of people will talk to me," he said, "if only to get rid of me." 

Well, now, that I believed. 

"Besides," he continued, "you haven't denied his claim." 

Damn. I folded my arms around my waist, and sighed. My gaze again went to Kaspar. He wasn't looking at me, still silent, still sullen. "If I look, and I still say I can't do it . . ." 

Ted shrugged. "Look first," he advised. 

Right. I sucked in my upper lip, chewed on it, and began to look. 

How to explain what I did. It's like living life with your hands in your pockets, and then reaching out to stroke a cat's fur. You appreciate the textures, the slide of individual hairs across your skin, the delicacy of the bones underneath. You can tell someone else how soft it is, how dirty, how long, how sleek, how wet or dry. And yet, what I do is different. There are more dimensions than that. 

My magic uncurled from behind my defenses, whispering out like whiskers to brush across Kaspar's skin. My eyes still functioned, but my awareness was elsewhere, and I couldn't tell you what his reaction was. I knew he knew it when my magic brushed him, though. He couldn't not be aware. 

I already knew the curse was old and settled. What I hadn't realized was how intimate it was. It was like a network of capillaries, tiny wisps of magic threading throughout his body. The intricacy of it awed me, the potential dazzled me. I had no idea a curse could be laid like this. It was certainly too thorough a spell for me to ken on such a light scan. I divided my awareness, half of my attention maintaining the level of exploration I had established, the other half moving my body out from behind the counter. Ted was between me and Kaspar, but only briefly. He stepped smoothly aside, and passed out of my awareness again. 

My hand reached up to rest against Kaspar's chest, enough that I could feel the accelerated tempo of his heartbeat. But even that wasn't enough. The cotton fibers of his button-down shirt were like false leads, hazing out the level of sensitivity I'd need to follow all the minute traceries of the curse. I tugged on the shirt, freeing it from the waistband of his pants and began unbuttoning it, pushing it off his body and letting it drop to the floor. 

I heard him object, heard Ted's quiet "Shut up." I heard these things, but didn't attach importance to them. They were background noise, like the sound of cars passing outside. My hand settled again, this time on the bare skin of his chest, tickling briefly over the line of soft fuzzy hairs disappearing down under the waistband of his pants. Magic spun out of me and into his body, spilling into him, curling around an old curse as delicate as a cobweb and as tough as steel. I took another step, nuzzling his chest, turning my head to settle my cheek against his bare skin, sliding my hands around his waist and across his back. It looked like a lover's embrace. More of my power and attention were caught by the complexity of the curse at work in him. 

I sank into him, our bodies synchronized. His breathing slowed, my heartbeat sped up. I could feel the stir of air against Kaspar's bare arm as Ted moved behind him. I heard with two sets of ears the click of the shop door being locked. I could feel the tentacles of Kaspar's curse as if it curled through me. There was no separation of curse and man. It was one complex whole, an interweaving of cell and spell that left me daunted. And impressed. 

Having mapped at least where the curse was, if not how it was created, I wanted to see if I could untangle it. Carefully, like a thief sliding a card between a lock and a door, I interposed my magic between a handful of the curse threads. 

His body was mine, his pulse was mine, and his pain was mine. I don't know which one of us screamed first, but I do know my insides turned to fire. That was enough to yank me from the kenning, but if it hadn't been, Kaspar throwing me into the counter certainly was. My back smashed against the glass countertop, both agonies sufficient to see to it that I didn't get to my feet right away. 

I missed what happened next. Strangely, it was Ted who helped me stand. His hand was on my elbow, but my magic had retreated back into its box, and I got nothing from him. I wouldn't have wanted it anyway, I'm sure. In any case, when the dazzle in my eyes cleared, Kaspar was on the ground, Ted's booted foot on the back of his neck and a gun pointed at his head. It wasn't fair, I reflected briefly, that Ted could be so gentle helping me rise while perfectly prepared to splatter Kaspar's brains all over my clean floor. 

"Thanks," I muttered, hands going to the middle of my back. What else could I say? 

To Ted's further credit, he gave me a few more moments to collect my scattered thoughts. It wasn't easy. I kept eyeing the prone Kaspar and the bared gun in Ted's hand. I wasn't prepared to discuss what I'd learned about the curse, though. Now I had plenty of evidence that Kaspar was Ted's intended victim, and I wasn't about to help Ted out. 

"Going to shoot him right here in front of me?" I asked as mildly as I could manage. My voice shook, which sort of ruined the effect but it was the best I could do. 

"Wouldn't be the first time I shot him," Ted replied with what I could only assume was regret. "Doesn't work." 

I could have told him that. "Then would you let him up?" 

His foot moved. Kaspar didn't. Smart boy, Kaspar. "You can get up," Ted said. "I may not be able to kill you, but I can hurt you for a very long time. It would be best if you didn't try to run away again." 

I didn't know about Kaspar, but I wasn't running anywhere. Ted continued speaking with me as Kaspar crawled to his feet. I tried not to watch as he straightened his clothes, buttoned his shirt. I was embarrassed for him. He was a dead man walking, dragged through the world by his would-be killer. I couldn't even imagine how that felt. 

"I've tried silver bullets, beheading, even napalm." Napalm?! "Nothing works," Ted said. "He just puts himself together and goes on living. So it seems I need a witch to remove the curse." 

"Who told you that?" It was exactly correct, of course. The curse kept Kaspar alive. But right now, I was on Kaspar's side and had no intention of actually helping Ted out. I was still trying to think of a way to call the cops, or at least some kind of help that wouldn't result in a hostage situation and shoot-out. 

"Anne Greeley," he said. 

I knew the name. Anne lives in Delaware on the seashore. She is like me. She is a witch, powerful, controlled, and very, very good at hiding. She is, however, more stubborn than I am and more willing to die for her beliefs. "What'd you do to her?" 

Surprise flickered in Ted's pale blue eyes. "Nothing," he said. 

I shook my head. "Anne wouldn't have helped you," I replied firmly. "She wouldn't help you kill someone." 

He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open, showing me a photo ID. "I'm a licensed bounty hunter," he said. 

"This isn't a hunt," Kaspar said. It was the first time I'd heard him really speak. His accent was German, and his voice was bitter. "It's an execution." 

Privately, I agreed with him. Ted wasn't a hunter, he was a killer. There's a fine difference, but it's there. 

Ted smiled that wintry smile that I'd come to know and hate. "Even in New York, rogue shifters are hunted. Not executed." 

"He's not a shifter," I interjected. 

"Close enough for the lawyers. He shifts forms. He's a shifter." 

"You have a court order for this?" 

"I can get one." 

I didn't doubt that. "Just be sure to blow the ink dry when you're done printing one up. What did he do?" 

And just like that, the good ol' boy was back, warm smiles and twinkling eyes. Man, it creeped me out. "Kaspar here was running a private hunting reserve. He took payment from people who wanted to hunt and kill weres. He even tried to murder a human to force a couple of reluctant weres to shift for him so his impatient clients could hunt them down. Isn't that right, Kaspar?" 

Dear god. My wide eyes looked at Kaspar. He didn't look back. His eyes were fixed over my head, but his skin was like mine. Pale and creamy, it showed every fluctuation in tone and color. He was flushed. Anger or embarrassment, I didn't know, but I did know that Ted was telling the truth. 

From a legal standpoint, I was now in deep kim chee. If this was a legal hunt and I could help but didn't, I was breaking the law. Cops take a dim view of witches that aren't gung-ho on assisting the good guys. Legally, if you aren't part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Witches had been killed for less than refusing to counter spells set against cops. It makes the witch an accessory to the crime. So if I didn't remove Kaspar's curse, technically I could be considered as guilty of his crimes as he was.

Joy. 

I was good at hiding, but I didn't think I could hide from Ted Forrester if he decided to come looking for me again. Anne Greeley had helped him. Jacob Gardner had helped him. I had better help him too. 

Nice of the men to wait quietly while I worked all this out in my head. Ted was watching me, his eyes flat and blank. I knew better than to think he'd missed any of my expressions. I had been told often enough that my green eyes gave everything away. I couldn't lie to save my life. Or Kaspar's, in point of fact. 

"I can't do anything here," I said. 

"But you can lift the curse." 

My weight shifted, a bad idea because my back protested loudly. I grimaced, mincing behind the counter to the shelves of ointment, selecting one and fighting with the twist lid. "I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe. Lifting the curse might be enough to kill him. Might even kill me, if I can't find a better way of doing it than what I just tried." 

Ted took the jar from me. I was having to revise my opinion of him. His fingers were impersonal but gentle as he lifted the back of my shirt and spread the ointment on what I knew had to be a beauty of a red mark just below the hooks of my bra. Of course, it made sense that he would want to take care of me. He needed me to remove the curse, and I couldn't do that if I was distracted by a painful back. 

"It doesn't matter if you kill him." 

I half-turned, staring at Ted over my left shoulder. 

"To me," he clarified. 

I looked at Ted. Ted looked at me. Maybe that was disappointment I saw in his eyes. Disappointment that I wasn't going to kill Kaspar for him, or disappointment that I was horrified at the idea? "It matters to me," I said finally, tugging my shirt down and looking away. 

Ted screwed the lid back on the jar and even replaced it on the shelf. The remnant of the ointment on his fingers, he removed with a handkerchief. Killer carried a hankie. For some reason, it was the most absurd thing that had happened yet. I didn't laugh, though. Wrong kind of absurd. 

"Is there a better way?" he asked. Nice of him to wonder. 

"I think. Maybe. I need more . . ." I gestured at the store. "More stuff. A workspace. I'll have to pull a lot of power, and I want to be someplace more secure than this." 

He approved, I supposed. At any rate, he nodded. 

"You'll understand if I'm not too sanguine about taking you to my workspace." 

He nodded again. 

The back of my neck prickled, fine hairs tugging at their moorings in some ancient, instinctive bid to bristle like a hound. "You already know where it is, don't you?" I asked softly. 

Kaspar grimaced as Ted took him by the elbow, grimaced but didn't pull away. Ted didn't exactly answer me, but he did say "We'll meet you there. Ten p.m. tomorrow. Don't be late." 

"It's a date," was my automatic rejoinder. Even as the words were tumbling from my lips, I wished I could bite them back. It wasn't a date, it was nothing like a date. Fortunately, neither Ted nor Kaspar seemed to notice. Ted unlocked the door, and they left. 

I wondered how many times Kaspar would get shot that night trying to escape.

 

 

I can never figure out how any shifter manages to pass for human. All of them make my skin prickle, make the hairs on my arms stand up and pay attention. Oh, I know intellectually that my reaction is a psychic one and "mundanes" don't feel a thing. I just can't seem to grasp it on a visceral level. It's like going to a Giants game in November and being the only one who feels a chill. 

I mention this because, as I stood in Jacob's living room surrounded by five of his pack mates, my skin wanted to crawl off my body, scamper into another room, and huddle in the corner. I sympathized, but I kept my arms folded, holding my skin to my body. 

Jacob, damn his blue eyes, looked quite serene as he shrugged in partial answer to my not-so-polite inquiry. "He didn't hurt you, did he?" 

"You really think that's the point?" 

"If you ain't dead, you doin' somethin' right," I heard from behind me. 

I didn't turn. Bobby Yancey could be an asshole at the best of times. He had never really liked me, and I knew he'd deliberately placed himself at my back just to annoy me. I ignored him. It was the best weapon I had. "Jacob, we had a deal. You don't go around telling people that I'm better than I seem, I don't go around telling people that you're a werewolf." 

Something subtle moved through the room, a breeze-born whisper I couldn't hear. Tensions rose, and so did Jacob. He was unamused. "And now that I have told someone?" he asked ever so softly, head tilted. 

The problem with dealing with werewolves - well, one of the problems - is finding that delicate balance between being a meal and being a threat. I couldn't afford to teeter too far to either side, or I'd be on the lunch menu. 

On the other hand, a witch has to do what a witch has to do. I took a step forward, intruding on his personal space. Energy boiled from him, scouring against my senses like a waterfall of potential: potential danger, potential death, potential wolf. "You owe me," I replied, just as softly. 

I watched thoughts cycle through his expressions. Around us, the pack waited for any sign that today would be a good day to kill me. I didn't dare reach for power of my own; that would probably be all the spark this particular powder keg needed. Besides, I had a trick or two that would buy me a handful of seconds. If I needed them. 

"I owe you?" His eyes narrowed. 

A hand grabbed the back of my neck, wrapping tight. The fingertips grew rougher, the nails longer. That was enough to tell me Bobby Yancey had begun to shift. 

I had a lot of theory when it came to shifters, but not a lot of practice actually fighting them. My relations with this particular pack had been more along the lines of an armed truce. On my side was the fact that they had no idea what to expect from me. I didn't want them to know how few cards I truly held. But now, with werewolf claws slowly beginning to penetrate the thin protection of my fragile skin, I pulled out the big guns. 

My pivot toward Yancey caught him by surprise. Not enough for him to let me go, mind. From his point of view, he still had hold of my neck, and what was I going to do? Smack him? 

As a matter of fact. . . 

The flat of my hand slapped firmly against his chest. Power rose in him, a volcano poised to erupt. I reached out, shoving my magical senses deep into his center, and pulled. 

I burned. A witch wasn't meant to draw that much power, to hold onto it. At least, I wasn't. My God, one tiny corner of me thought as I wrestled with the tiger - no, wolf - I had caught. Is this what powerful witches feel? Is this what it's like for them, riding this wave of fiery, seething life? 

Bobby Yancey dropped to the ground like a particularly graceless puppet. The room went blank with astonishment, then roared with outrage. Still gasping and grasping for control, I let a burst of pure energy escape. I could see it as it swept over the pack, making them pause again. Loathe as I was to turn my back on any of them, I faced Jacob. 

My fingers were clawed tight, my muscles clenched in a vain, physical attempt to restrain the energies that burned like acid inside me. "He's alive!" I panted. "Alive, Jacob." 

"Get away from him," the pack leader snarled. 

Only too happy to obey, I stepped back, plastering myself to a wall. In terms of escape routes, it wasn't the smartest place to be. But I could have been in my car with the motor running and not gotten away if they didn't want me to go. I opted for the security of being able to see them all in a single glance. 

As I backed off, Jacob crouched down and slid forward, one outstretched hand brushing itself across Yancey's face. "Alive," he grunted, standing in an effortless ripple of muscle that, at another time, I would have admired. "What did you do?" 

Kara Wetherton, the shifter nearest me, wrinkled her nose beneath warm amber eyes. "She smells like pack," she said, only the softest of snarls tainting her words with something more than 'human'. "Like Bobby." 

"Don't touch me," I cautioned them all, somewhat belatedly. "Don't attack me, and don't you damned well draw claws on me." I grew more eloquent as I figured out how to contain and channel the energy. 

No, stealing energy wasn't nice of me. No, it wasn't polite. Hell, it wasn't even legal except that it had been a case of self-defense. Energy-theft was definitely on the icky side of the karmic scale, but I'd rather owe the spirit side a few good deeds than turn furry once a month. 

"Can you stop us?" Jacob wanted to know. "Can you stop all of us?" 

My lips curled, teeth bared at the challenge. The energy inside me, the spirit of the wolf, wanted to fight, wanted to feel his throat slitting open. "I don't have to stop all of you," I said, voice a few notches huskier than normal. "I just have to take you down, Jacob." 

His now-yellow eyes blinked, and I saw him realize I was right. All I had to do was take down the pack leader. Yancey was the closest thing to an alpha besides Jacob in the room, and Yancey was definitely sitting out the rest of the game. With both high-ranking members of the pack taken down by me, I would have more than demonstrated my ability to be dominant. Then Jacob smiled again, a baring of teeth that equaled mine. "Can you stop me, Rachel?" 

Damn. I hate it when people call my bluffs. I had no idea if I could take down an alpha werewolf. Certainly with my own power, it would have been a question mark the size of Central Park. But I didn't need to rely on my power, I had Yancey's power plus my control. 

Borrowed power saved me when Jacob leaped. I dodged, a movement I neither predicted nor consciously made. It just happened. He crashed into the wall, immediately rebounding off it to spring at me again. 

I hadn't expected that. Even a werewolf should take a moment to shake off an impact with a wall, I thought. But Jacob didn't, and I was running on pure reflex. My hand came up again, and Jacob smashed into another wall, this one of sheer energy. Part of me reveled in it, having that much power to spew around. 

Part of me was afraid I'd start to like it too much. 

Jacob noticed that impact, taking a swing at the wall with furred and clawed hands. His claws skidded off of the barrier he could feel, but not see, and he growled his frustration. 

Before he could think to go around it or over it, a twist of my will reshaped the wall into a flowing mass of tentacles that slammed him to the ground and pinned him there. 

He battered against his shackles with muscle and magic. I could feel his energy shredding the bonds I renewed as fast as he damaged them. I would never have been able to do it on my own, but with Yancey's power added to mine, I began to feel equal to the task. Jacob had more raw power, true, but he didn't have any outlet for channeling it aside from taking wolf form. I had him. I had him! My eyes caught his, fierce exultation in my gaze meeting near desperation in his. 

Then I realized what I was doing. By taking down the pack alpha in a challenge, I stripped him of his pack. And that, I emphatically did not want. 

He surged against his bonds once again, and this time I relaxed my hold just a fraction, enough so he could break free. I feigned an exhaustion I didn't yet feel, staggering back two steps and almost tripping over a coffee table. Jacob sprang from his back to his feet. We faced off in the center of the apartment, staring at each other over the body of Bobby Yancey, reaching a silent agreement. 

"You can't take me, witch," he said, beginning the opening steps of a dance we both knew we had to tread. 

"But I can stop you," I countered. 

He didn't like it. His lips formed another snarl, one he finally bit back with a curse. Now devoid of fur and claws, his hand flipped at me. "True," he conceded. 

And that was that. I sank to the floor, no longer faking how tired I was. Stolen energy never lasts long, use it or lose it. What I'd taken seeped away, and Bobby twitched on the floor next to me. The rest of the pack settled down. I no longer felt them leaking power. Of course, I wasn't sure I could feel it. Tired as I was, a magical nuke could have gone off next to me and I'd have been brain-dead to it. 

But we weren't done. There was still the matter of him ratting me out to Ted Forrester. "You owe me," I reiterated. 

"I owe you," Jacob agreed, emphasis on the pronoun. "Not the pack, not the Ulfric. Jacob Gardner owes you." 

I understood the distinction, and had to appreciate his intelligence. I couldn't make a claim on the pack based on this boon, Jacob was saying. Nothing that involved his wolves or pack matters. That still left me with plenty of punch. If, say, I ever wanted a bodyguard because a bounty hunter decided I needed killing, I could do worse than have an alpha werewolf at my back. 

Then an even better idea occurred to me. 

"Deal," I said, taking another few breaths before levering my weary body off the floor. "And I won't even keep you dangling. I'll pick you up tomorrow night at nine o'clock." 

"A date?" he asked, voice heavy with amusement. 

I wrangled the door open through stubborn refusal to give up. "It's not a date," I grumbled. "It's nothing like a date."


	2. Chapter 2

I spent my remaining hours reading book after book on lycanthropy, shape-shifting, and fairy tales. Kaspar was some kind of combination of all three, but damned if I could figure out how the curse actually worked. I delved into curse lore and Romani tales. When I finally fell asleep, it was to some very dark dreams. Brothers Grimm, indeed. 

By the time I picked up Jacob the following night, I had a smidgen of an idea how to reverse Kaspar's curse without killing him or me outright. It never occurred to me to ask Ted for more time. I knew I wouldn't get it. 

We arrived at my place of power, an old barn in New York's back woods, at five minutes before ten. Despite what was about to go down there, I couldn't hold back a sigh of pure relief. The barn had attracted me originally not only because of its remote location, but also because of its feeling of belonging, of connectedness, I suppose you could call it. It was a place built by man but accepted by nature. Over the years, I had layered it with protective spells and had done so many workings there, it resonated with me. 

Being there is like reclaiming a part of myself. 

On this night, things were no different. I relaxed into that feeling of homecoming. Jacob, mostly silent during the ride, watched me with open curiosity. 

"Taking me to a barn dance?" he asked. 

"You wish," I replied, finding humor came easier now. "You're going to help me get Ted Forrester off my back." 

"You want me to kill him?" he offered, wedging himself out of the Wrangler. 

His task would have been made easier if this had been summer. Summertime saw my Wrangler as God intended them to be - stripped to the bare bones and roll bars. But this was February, and if there was anything more miserable than a New York February, I had yet to encounter it. 

"I considered it," I admitted. "But he's a supernatural bounty hunter. I get the feeling you wouldn't be the first shifter he'd killed. No," I went on, ignoring Jacob's indignant bristle, "I have something a trifle more esoteric in mind for you this evening." 

His curiosity was palpable. He wanted to know what I had in mind, but I wasn't going to tell him. He could still get away. 

I spotted Ted and Kaspar leaning against Ted's rental car. Props to the Killer for not trying to go inside before I got there. Heck, I was pretty impressed he'd managed to find it. The barn has a way of not being noticed. That's to keep out people looking for a building to burn, or a place to party. 

In the scant radiance of a half-moon February night, the barn was illuminated in patches and stripes as moonlight flickered down through the bare, wet branches of sleeping trees. On a night where there was no fog anywhere else, a silvery haze of the stuff curled around the barn. I walked past Ted and Kaspar, silent. 

I set one hand on the damp wood of the small door to the barn, ignoring the larger, sliding doors built originally to admit carts and wagons. Behind me, I could feel the unease of the two magic-touched beings, and from Ted, nothing. I opened the door. 

Inside, the barn was nearly as bright as outside. Though I kept the roof in good repair so I could work during the rain, the sides of the barn were missing slats here and there, and the vents at the peak where wall met roof were missing entirely. It left the barn open to every passing breeze, to the vagaries of nature. Ivy creepers flourished, small animals found shelter in my barn, and I welcomed them. I kept hoping a barn owl would move in, but so far no such luck. There were plenty of other birds, though. I could hear them shifting sleepily as I entered, the others following behind me. 

I moved to a darkened corner of the barn, pulling an oil cloth off a trunk I'd found in a tack shop. The trunk was huge, weatherproof, and sturdy. It did a more than adequate job of holding the materials I generally used. I took out five oil lanterns and five wooden stakes before moving back to the center of the barn. 

Jacob, Kaspar, and Ted were still standing near the door. Jacob was trying not to look uncomfortable, Kaspar wasn't bothering to hide it, and Ted was looking at the tarp in the middle of the floor. 

I set the lanterns and stakes down in a pile before reaching out to pull back the tarp, revealing my pentagram in the uncertain light. I could see it perfectly. To me, it shone with the subtle glow of old magic, my magic. It dominated the space, nine feet in diameter (three times three, never overlook the importance of mystical symbolism in magical workings). I had spent years building it. The original design was dug into the dirt, partly filled with concrete, then topped with melted silver. It was the most extravagant thing I owned, and I'm including my store and my car in that. 

"That isn't silver, is it?" Jacob asked. 

"Touch it and find out," I offered, beginning to stake down the oil lanterns. He didn't move. 

I used to just set the oil lanterns at each of the five points of the pentacle. Then a summoning gone wrong tipped them all over, nearly burning down the barn. Now I pounded stakes into the ground and tied the lanterns to them. I'm a safety girl. 

Lighting the lamps sent a golden warmth spreading through the barn. Overhead, a sparrow chirped his curiosity, then went back to sleep. I used scented oils, a dusky pine and amber blend that fit in well with the scents already present. The silver pentagram reflected gold wherever the light touched it. I turned to Kaspar. 

"Into the center," I said. 

Kaspar didn't move. "He'll kill me," he said softly. "You're helping him kill me." 

I looked away, moved back to the trunk. Behind me, Ted said, "And how many weres did you help people kill? How many did you hunt and slaughter?" 

I appreciated that. Kaspar didn't look like a killer. He looked aristocratic, handsome, poised, and almost delicate. It was too easy for me to forget that he had butchered more than his share of innocents. I needed reminding, or I'd never be able to go through with this. 

Standing by the trunk, I removed my clothes, folded them, and put them away. I don't usually work naked, but sometimes clothing can insulate, interfere with magic. I wanted every bit of sensitivity I could get. The cold had predictable effects, but I didn't let it bother me. Ted wouldn't care, Kaspar was certainly otherwise diverted, and Jacob practically lived with casual nudity among his pack members. I was cold, but I knew that wouldn't last long. 

I padded barefoot on the soft dirt of the barn's floor to stand at the point of the pentagram in the east. Technically, traditionally, pentagrams are supposed to point toward the north. My first instructor had told me, however, that anytime tradition conflicted with what felt right to me, I should toss tradition. The east was where the sun rose, the beginning of the day, a fresh start, renewal. My pentagrams always pointed toward the east. 

On the other side of the barn, Kaspar was refusing to help out. Jacob and Ted were less than understanding. 

"I will not be a willing participant in my own destruction," Kaspar said flatly. 

Ted looked over at me. "Do you need him conscious?" 

"No," I sighed. "I'd prefer he was awake, though. It's bad enough doing this without his consent." 

Jacob cocked his head. "That matters?" 

"It matters," I confirmed. "Consent is a powerful tool." 

"I could cut off his legs at the knees," Ted offered. Good ol' Ted, always thinking. 

Kaspar snarled something in German. I was glad I had taken French in high school. He yanked his arm free of Ted's grasp, and stalked into the pentagram, glaring at me, daring me. 

"Where do you want me?" asked Jacob. 

"Behind me. Set your hands on my shoulders. And only my shoulders." He was used to casual nudity, true, but I still wanted it clear that my body was mostly off-limits. 

He sighed, but moved to stand behind me and obediently rested his hands where I instructed. 

I felt my body react to the sizzle of his power, nothing between my magic and his but a thin barrier of will and intent. My mouth began to water, I was actually drooling at the taste and scent and feel of all that hot power at my back. I took a deep breath, controlling my baser impulses. 

Ted stayed by the door. That's fine. That's where I wanted him. Well, really I wanted him in another state entirely, but I'd settle for by the door. 

Then I deliberately set him outside of my awareness, and focused on Kaspar. 

Power rose in easy obedience to my summons, flowing through the pentagram without a hiccup or a pause. I love that feeling. I was alive then in ways I never was outside the call and answer of magic. Magic reached for Kaspar, and his own magic answered. I caught threads of his curse, his soul, and bound him to the power surrounding him. I couldn't have done it if he weren't partly a magical creature, but he was and I could and I did. 

He couldn't run now if he wanted to. And part of him wanted to run. The rest of him wanted to fly. 

Overhead, the nesting sparrows took wing, a ruffling of air and alarm calls sounding their response to the threnody of magic. It shrilled with Kaspar's fear, his desire for flight translating itself to the birds. Poor things. 

I talked as I worked. Here, my magic was more potent even than the curse. It couldn't bar me from mapping it out, tracing over its darker inlay with my own argent power. "There's a spell," I murmured, "that some witches use. Taking the skin of a magical animal, the witch becomes that animal. A really powerful witch can do it with any animal skin, not requiring the imbued magic already present." 

Kaspar began to glow, limned by a halo of a form not his own. Wings were made over his arms and hands. His legs and feet were echoed by webbing. And over his face, an elegant arch of neck and head and beak. A swan. I almost faltered. It was lovely. 

"Ordinarily, the witch can step in and out of the skin at will, but in this case, the skin is bonded to Kaspar. It's a kissing cousin of true lycanthropy, shifting on a cellular basis. Or perhaps it's more like a tattoo. Embedded so deep in the skin, it will never shed out. But I can peel it away." 

This, I could do alone. Here, anyway. This didn't take power, it took precision and care. This was the easy part. I traced the curse through all of its mazed tangles, remorseless, followed it to its anchors deep in Kaspar's psyche. There, I found that the curse had an escape clause. All Kaspar had to do to be human again was to change who he was, how he thought of other people.

Kaspar would never change. He was worse now than he ever had been when the curse had been set. He hadn't learned any lessons of humility or empathy. He had only become more bitter, more petty. Here, in the root of Kaspar's soul, I saw him for what he was. 

The curse hadn't done its job. It was not an effective punishment, and now I could feel justified in lifting it. I couldn't pry it from him, I realized, hovering in Kaspar's mind. That would be impossible. The curse had its conditions and it would fulfill them. But if I could convince it that Kaspar had changed, it would fall away voluntarily. And the easiest way to do that was to take Kaspar's place. 

Possession is a black art, but what the hell. There wasn't much white about this night, except in the eyes of man's law. First, the energy theft and now this. Not to mention what I was planning to do next. I was never going to come out of this clean and white. 

Like fighting werewolves, I knew the theory behind possession but had no practical experience. Kaspar's soul, Kaspar's self, would be packaged away, wreathed in spells that bound him tight. The body would lack an animating force, I would move into the empty space. Of course, that would leave my body empty, but here in this barn I could do that without fear of something sub-letting me. 

Kaspar objected vehemently, but he had no idea how to fight what I was doing to him. He had never been particularly strong-willed anyway, and will is the pedestal on which all magic rests. I had no problems wrapping up his soul and removing most of the bonds that held him in his body. Somewhere, a twinge of concern told me that this was a wrong thing that I was doing. But I had known that going in. 

As I abandoned the shell of my body, I felt Jacob's hands tense on my shoulders to keep me upright. Good boy, Jacob. At least I wouldn't come back to bruises or broken bones. The curse woke, partially roused by a change it hadn't been crafted to comprehend. Kaspar was not-there. Had he been dying or wounded, the curse could have healed him. But he wasn't. Before it could figure out what to do about the state of affairs, I was in Kaspar's body. 

My perspective shifted wildly. Kaspar's eyes were open. Quickly, I shut them, willing nausea to subside. I kept my focus on the channel of energy emanating from my body to my new body. Kaspar had no innate magic, I could not lose my source or this would be all to do over again. Once I was sure I was stable, I turned my attention back to the curse. 

It was dark, bleak, the casting of a woman in bitter pain. Her revenge was just, and it seared my nerves. I wondered how he lived with this, then I remembered that he couldn't sense it, not on a magical level as I could. My stomach heaved, and I cried out, startled as a man's voice emanated from my throat. 

Dark magic boiled through me, conflicting with the magic entering the body, the magic that kept me where I did not belong. Sharp-edged threads of cursed intent whipped through the body, searching for a new anchor. Kaspar was beyond the reach of the curse, but I was not. The cords lanced deep into me, spearing me, tearing apart my soul in search of the personality the curse had been crafted to go after. 

They did not find it. There was only one option left to the curse. It broke. It shattered, and fell back like splinters of metal dragged from my flesh. 

I fled back along the magical channel into my own body, pulling the shroud from Kaspar's soul as I went. There was no time to deal with the disorientation or the throat-grabbing terror, as if the curse could somehow pursue me. 

I felt Jacob's fingers digging into my flesh, felt the dirt under my bare feet and opened my eyes. 

A swan skin sloughed away from Kaspar, falling even as I watched. Gravity moves slower than magic, I suppose. But I wasn't done with Kaspar, not by a long shot. 

The curse kept him alive, and now that the curse was gone there was nothing to support the life of someone who had lived more than four times his normal life span. Nothing but me. 

Or rather, nothing but me and Jacob. 

I reached with my senses behind me, above me, drawing on the clean blaze of Jacob's power, ripping it from him and into myself. I made his power my power, and I drank him down. 

I had thought Bobby Yancey was powerful, almost an alpha. If I hadn't been so busy, I would have laughed at myself. Now I knew what power was, now I knew what it was to be an alpha werewolf. It came too fast, faster than I could handle it. Stemming the flow was like trying to hold back a geyser with my bare hands. And Jacob, he knew what I was doing. After an initial flash of surprise, he grasped the concept. I heard him growl and the sound wasn't an angry one. 

Magic burst down the connection I still maintained to Kaspar. He was fading, dying, passing into a death long-denied. I denied it again. I began to twist Kaspar, my will and intent taking over where the curse had stopped when I had broken it. I returned Kaspar to youth, nullified the passage of time in his body, the awareness of time from his cells. They renewed themselves, feeding on the energy I offered them. 

Jacob's lips fastened on the soft skin where my shoulder met my neck, and a fresh wash of feral might slammed into me. I gasped, cried out. I had to get rid of it. I was glowing, even to non-magical eyes, taking as much from Jacob as I could hold. But where Yancey had fallen, Jacob remained standing. 

His teeth bit deeper, his left hand wrapping around my breast. His callused palm scratched the tender skin of my nipple. One of his hands dropped lower, fingers tangling through the curls between my legs. Wave after wave of animal force exploded into me, replacing the energy as fast as I could get rid of it. My head snapped backwards. Jacob's mouth slammed onto mine, and he ate my screams. 

Three sounds, louder than my now-muffled moans, louder than Jacob's growls, louder even than Kaspar's howls. Three cracks, like ice shattering, like lightning strikes. Jacob vanished from my awareness. 

The abrupt cessation of power dropped me to my knees, my chin snapping down toward my chest and rebounding back up. I only saw what happened next because I happened to have my head pointed that way. Ted, by the door, took aim again, this time at the man in the center of my pentagram. A fourth shot caught Kaspar in the head. My eyes tracked the burst of blood, bone, and brain matter that came out the other side. 

With effort, I looked back at Ted. He lowered his arm, turning his head to look at me. He was neutral, pale eyes blank and empty, waiting for my reaction, waiting to see if he would need to shoot me, too. A killer. My mouth opened, but drawing a breath was more than my body could tolerate. The world went black. 

When I could see again, Jacob and I were alone in the barn.

 

 

A week later, and I'm still waiting for my world to settle down. 

My relationship with Jacob has changed, but it's not a change I'm comfortable with. He seems to have forgiven Ted for shooting him. Ted could have killed him, easily, but the bullets were plain lead. It never even occurred to Jacob to blame me, thankfully. I think he's got other things on his mind where I'm concerned. I've never been as intimately bound with someone as I was that night with Jacob. It felt . . . good. And I know he had a similar response. I avoid him, though. Between getting high on Yancey's power and then the incomparable strength and ferocity of Jacob's power, I want more. It's a drug, a magic drug. I want to think I can trust myself, but it would be so very easy to justify taking just a little bit from Jacob. He'd never notice. 

He tries to see me. To him, this is just unresolved sexual tension that can best be alleviated by a good hard fuck. There's so much more to it than that, and I don't know how to explain it to him. Or how to tell him why it's wrong. 

Needless to say, I haven't seen Ted Forrester since that night. I didn't bother to report it as a homicide, mostly because there was no body by the time I woke up. There should have been, but I suppose Ted took care of it. The swan skin was gone, too. I was of two minds over that. First of all, eww. Let's face it, it was macabre at best. But it would have been a fascinating memento. What did Ted want with it, anyway? 

This morning, I got a package in the mail. A padded envelope with only my address on it, it gave no clue as to the sender's identity. Inside, I found a bundle of raw white silk. There is no better insulator for magical things than raw silk, and don't ask me why. Wrapped in the silk was one pure white swan feather, almost a foot long and shimmering to my magical senses. 

This was a tool. The swan skin had been steeped in magic so long, it was magical itself. The feather all but vibrated in my hand, a perfect vessel for magical energies. It would take any enchantment and hold it forever. It could even channel energies better than my flawless quartz wand. I couldn't help but smile as I wafted it through the air, watching with mage sight the glittering echoes of itself it left behind. 

I also found a business card in the envelope. Ted Forrester, it said, Bounty Hunter. The card was simple, just the name, the job description, and a phone number. Did he think I would call him? Was he just making sure I knew who had sent the feather? Maybe he was letting me know that I could call him if I ever needed his help. 

I wondered if he sent the feather just so I'd have a memento, or if he knew what a wonderful gift it makes for a witch. I think he knew. I think he knows. Sometimes I catch myself wondering where he is, what he's doing. 

And then I realize I don't want to know.


End file.
